


Breathe and Move Forward

by demonkatgurl17



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Choose Your Own Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oliver and Slade are kinda crap at being dads, Pining, Rape not between Oliver/Slade, Trigger warnings for rape, double-ending, seriously read the tags ppl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonkatgurl17/pseuds/demonkatgurl17
Summary: Post-S3-S6.6 Oliver finds himself struggling. Slade re-enters his life, bad things happen, and Oliver has to decide what his happiness is worth.





	1. In What Direction?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harry1981](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harry1981/gifts).



> Been working on this since early February after getting a fic prompt from ragseas on FFN (I think only half of the prompt made its way here, I apologize if any of it offends you, I followed my writing fairy and, frankly, she's kind of a bitch to my characters...). 
> 
> Anyways, please read the tags, I will only respond with laughter if I get hate for the rape scene bc fuck you, I put it in the tags and you read it anyway, that's on you now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post S3-S6.6. Oliver is losing himself. Slade re-enters his life life, some bad things happen, and Oliver must decide what his happiness is worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been working on this from a prompt I got from Ragsweas on FFN. Think only half of the prompt made it in here (and I apologize if any of it offends you!). 
> 
> Anyways. Please read the tags. If you flame me for the rape scene, I will literally reply only with laughter bc fuck you, it was in the tags and your pain is now your fault.

Oliver ran a towel over his freshly-washed hands and face, draping it across the bar next to the vanity. He took a moment to straighten it back into perfection.

 

Everything around him looked like it came straight out of a magazine - a pristine sense of order to remind him that pain and destruction was no longer part of his life, that he could move past it and be better.

 

_That he could be something else._

 

The thought brought forth a jagged helplessness within him, but after a few shaky, slow breaths, Oliver reopened eyes that had fluttered shut at the sense of _wrongness_ and stared at his reflection, trying to remember why he had left Starling -no, _Star_ \- City and his crusade, why he had asked Felicity to come away with him after defeating Ra’s al Ghul…

  
His life here with Felicity was simple and quiet.

 

He was _happy_.

 

Except…

 

Sometimes he wasn’t.

 

And when he wasn’t, every charming piece of furniture, every carefully chosen piece of _domestic tranquility_ seemed to stick out and mock him, becoming as discordant now as it had felt when Oliver had stepped back into his pristine family home after five years of living in pain, punishment, and death.

 

The walls themselves were starting to feel like a gilded cage again.

 

There was nowhere to go, no one to fight.

 

Because who can fight a memory?

 

Oliver gripped the edges of the sink hard so hard his knuckles went white, breathed in, out, in again, deepening his breathing against the dark stir of emotions rising within him. He didn’t have time for a meltdown; he still needed to collect supplies for tomorrow’s brunch, needed to prepare for his proposal to Felicity.

 

But doubt was creeping in, and Oliver was less and less sure who he was anymore.

It had been _months_ since Oliver had returned from Lian Yu. Locking Slade away again should have put his feelings to rest, but nothing had changed and the memories refused to fade…

 

Slade Wilson, the man Oliver could not seem to forget.

 

All because of a split-second mistake.

 

Years before, on the Amazo, there had been no time - Slade, out of his mind with rage and grief, was threatening all Oliver held dear, and Oliver had found himself reacting on instinct, blindly lashing out, his own pain and fear overriding his want to cure the madness - and when Oliver had stepped away from where Slade was pinned to the floor under rubble, there was an arrow thorough Slade’s eye. The boat had rocked and Oliver’s world went black until he woke up in Hong Kong. Alive and alone. Oliver spent years living with regret and self-loathing, trying to be anything but the stupid kid that had washed up onto Lian Yu, the boy who had fallen into an affair with Shado because it was _easy_ , even though it had _paled_ to what he felt for Slade, the boy who had allowed his own fear and pride to still his tongue and shrivel his courage until all the moments between he and Slade had been used up and wasted, never finding the nerve to give his affection for the man a voice. Anger and regret had chased the hot sting of his guilt, the whole mess shadowing him even after finally returning home, all of it twisting in his gut.

 

In a way, it had been easier when Oliver had thought the man dead, murdered by his own hand because when Slade came for him, he was like a wraith straight from Oliver’s darkest nightmare, made worse for being real because he was alive and he _hated_ Oliver with a passion stoked by the Mirakuru poisoning his mind. Oliver cured and imprisoned Slade in the hope that, with his system free from the drug, Slade would remember who he was and maybe regain something of the man he had been - the man Oliver had loved. But his hope for saving Slade took a heavy blow several months ago when Oliver found himself back on Lian Yu with Thea, having to fight Slade once more when Malcolm released him from A.R.G.U.S.’s island prison. Though free of the Mirakuru, the older man had still raged against him, blaming Oliver for the breaking of his heart while shattering Oliver’s in the process.

 

That day on the island, Oliver realized that the Slade he loved was gone forever.

 

The events on the island had spurred him to move forward and, once Oliver and his loved ones were free from the threat of Ra’s, Oliver tried to move _on_. At the time, tired and broken as he was, it just made _sense_ to run away with Felicity, hoping that his affection for her would blossom into something that would fade the memory of Slade into something less sharp and gutting.

 

Maybe Oliver expected too much, too soon. Maybe he was asking for the impossible.

 

But he was willing to _try._

 

 _Breathe and move forward_.

 

Oliver closed his eyes, letting the mantra repeat in his mind. He forced himself to release his death grip on the vanity as he regained control of his errant emotions. 

 

He needed to move forward if he wanted to free himself from the past.

_Breathe and move forward._

 

Forcing down another swell of uncertainty, Oliver took one last breath before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom, once again intent on becoming something else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time passed and somehow the tumult within Oliver became easier to manage - it didn’t go away entirely, he was just too busy to really take stock of himself. And who can blame him with all that had happened in the past year and a half?

 

The city fell under the threat of Darhk. Laurel died. Oliver’s team was left splintered in wake of Darhk’s eventual defeat. In all the chaos, Oliver managed to get elected as mayor of Star City.

 

Felicity left him, in her own way, when she learned about William, not long after Oliver learned of William himself. Things between Oliver and Felicity remained rocky as he trained the new recruits. When she got involved with Helix, she drifted away even more. It was the ordeal with Prometheus that officially tore them apart. Oliver knew it was over after the EMP attack on the lair. They finally had a chance to talk about what Chase did to him, how he proved that Oliver was just as bad as he was. Felicity would never say it, but a part of her had always known he was a monster. She pulled away even more after that and, though it broke his heart even more, Oliver knew it was for the best. She deserved better and Oliver’s heart was never wholly hers in the first place, battered and bruised and still aching for someone beyond his reach.

 

Everything spiraled out of control before he could do anything to stop it and Oliver found himself back on Lian Yu, having to ask his enemies for help, to ask _Slade_ for help. What Oliver got when he came to Slade’s cell was something out of his dreams: Slade, sane and repentant, willing to fight by his side again. Questions and hope blossomed in his chest, but Oliver stayed his tongue. Chase took priority. But even Slade’s help was not enough to keep a bad situation from getting _so_ much worse. With Chase’s suicide, the island was engulfed in flame, some of those closest to Oliver were hurt, some were killed, and in the painful aftermath, Slade set off on a crusade of his own, with Oliver unable to do more than watch him go, letting perhaps their final moment slip away.

 

He doesn’t know what he would have said anyway.

 

Now, months later, after funerals, hospital visits, and a crash course in parenting, Oliver is tired, burdened more than he’s ever been, and so, so _lonely_.

 

Felicity tries to help him with William, as well as she can with how awkward and broken things are between them. It’s not the same, but Oliver doesn’t want things back as they were. In a way, she did them both a favor by walking away first. Lord knows he hadn’t been about to break her heart by ending their relationship himself, though he’s pretty sure he managed to break her heart anyway - something he’d always been good at.

 

It’s while he’s under the stress of the FBI inquiry, of his mayoral position, of his sudden single-fatherhood, that Slade comes to him for help.

 

Oliver barely hesitates.

 

Guilt rankles at Oliver for running away because part of this is him still chasing a pipe dream. When he found Slade in that cell, sane again, a trickle of hope had welled up inside Oliver, stirring up feelings he thought buried long ago. But that didn’t make it easy for Oliver to just follow Slade into battle again. Though he’d been under the influence of the Mirakuru, Slade had _still_ been the one to hurt Oliver, and the pain of his betrayal tempered Oliver’s hope, making him wary of getting too close to something he couldn’t -and maybe _shouldn’t_ \- have.

 

But with Joe being held in a Kasnian prison, Oliver’s feelings were once more benched in favor of more pressing concerns.

 

 

 

 

 

The flight to Kasnia was long and tense, with too many ears around them for open conversation. Oliver made a few broken attempts at small talk before spending the rest of the flight in awkward silence.

 

Another waste of time between them.

 

The irony wasn’t lost on Oliver.

 

 

 

 

 

Following Slade’s lead, they met with Nylander, a…friend…of Slade’s. Oliver didn’t like him, told himself it had nothing to do with the embrace that seemed to come so easy to Nylander and Slade. Oliver shrugged it off. He trusted Slade (mostly) and that was enough.

 

It probably should have bothered him how easily he had slipped back into that habit, of trusting Slade, but, despite being unsure of the present situation, having Slade beside him, strong and sure, was enough to sell him on Nylander.

 

Once in their motel room, Slade finally revealed his plan to Oliver and they wasted no time in implementing it.

 

 

 

 

 

Naturally, events just _couldn’t_ unfold as planned.

 

 

 

 

 

The arranged meeting with the warden yielded distressing news, news Oliver had to painfully relay to Slade. Watching the older man’s whole being crumple in disappointment and sorrow made Oliver’s heart sink heavy in his chest as he consoled Slade as best he could. Slade might not be the best of men, but he had deserved a second chance with his son.   

 

Listless, Slade wandered over to the window, staring out at something, at nothing. He didn’t move or speak, nearly half an hour ticking by with nothing but an ocean of silence and grief between them. Oliver well understood the man’s loss and though he wanted to respect Slade’s grieving process and give him space, this sudden lifelessness had Oliver worried. Worried enough to cross the room and stand beside him. Slade didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even twitch. Frowning, Oliver stepped a little closer. “Slade.” Beyond the subtle rise and fall of the man’s chest, Slade didn’t move, just continued to look out the window with a vacant expression, though Oliver was pretty sure Slade wasn’t really seeing anything outside.

 

 _Shock_ , Oliver thought.  _He’s in shock_.

 

“Slade?” he tried again, with no response. By now, Oliver started to panic a little himself. He had no real skill in dealing with emotional crises otherwise _he_ wouldn’t be the mess he was today. He needed to do something, wanted to help, but Slade appeared to be trapped inside his own head.

 

Oliver placed a shaky hand on Slade’s shoulder, very aware of the warmth and solid muscle of it.

 

The touch went unnoticed.

 

Words and touch weren’t getting through. Hitting Slade would likely get both of them hurt. Or worse.

 

Concern overtook Oliver’s sense of reason and, turning to the irrational, he pressed his lips to Slade’s, overwhelmed by the cloud of emotions he had been trying to forget for months, for _years_.

 

After a moment, when Slade remained unresponsive, Oliver’s brain caught up, his mind dropping into an endless loop of _oh my god, what did I do?_

 

He backed away from Slade, eyes on the floor, briefly covering his mouth with his hand as though some trace of the kiss remained and hiding it from the world could take back what he’d just done. “I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just…did that,” Oliver whispered, trailing off despondently, staring at the ugly pattern of the rug a few feet from him. So caught up in his own panic, he completely missed the tiny jerk that went through Slade’s body as he came back to himself, looking over at Oliver with a frown.

 

The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously loud in the otherwise silent room. No one moved. Oliver was now the one caught in his own mind, blind to the fact that he now had Slade’s full attention.

 

Without warning, Oliver gave in to the urge to flee and went for his suitcase. The whole trip had been a waste - _that_ much was clear - and now he was just making things worse. Best to let Slade grieve in peace. He hefted the case from where it lay on the bed, knuckles white around the handle. Unable to look at Slade properly, he offered “I’m sorry” again - as thought it was any _real_ comfort - then strode to the door.

 

The door was barely open before Slade’s arm shot out from around Oliver to force it shut again, shocking Oliver, who hadn’t heard him move. Both stood still, frozen in place for one breath, two-

 

“Please don’t leave.”

 

Slade’s voice was low and gruff like always, but it sounded so _torn up_ that Oliver couldn’t find it in him to refuse. Cautious, Oliver slowly turned to face the other man, who let his arm drop but otherwise made no move to give Oliver space. Slade’s face was unreadable (not that he could ever be called _open_ ). Oliver floundered. He had no idea what was going through Slade’s head, or his own, for that matter. How could he have been so stupid…“I shouldn’t have-”

 

“Your timing is shit, kid, I’ll give you that,” Slade interrupted.

 

Guilt burned in Oliver’s chest. _I’m better than this_ , he chastised himself, ashamed at his lack of self-control.

 

“Look, it’s not-” Slade started then paused, huffed and looked around the room before settling his gaze back on Oliver. “It’s not that I’m not- Or that _you’re_ not- **I’m** just…not…” Slade trailed off, so _apologetic_ that Oliver nearly cringed.

 

 _Just not interested_ , Oliver mentally finished.

 

Honesty, he couldn’t say he was surprised. The odds of Slade returning his feelings had been astronomically out of his favor. It had been stupid to even hope, even _more_ so to _act_ on it _._ Although, acting on it _now_ when the man had only just lost his son forever _probably_ hadn’t done him any favors either. The only good thing here was that he finally had an answer to a question he’d held to his chest for nearly a decade.

 

“You don’t have to explain,” Oliver said gently with a small, sad smile. _Breathe and move forward_. “Slade… I know this trip didn’t turn out as you hoped” - _understatement_ \- “But that doesn’t mean you can’t still take your son home.”  

 

Joe.

 

This had all been about finding Joe and, if there was _one_ thing that Oliver could do now to help Slade, it was to see this properly finished out so that maybe the man could find some peace. He owed him that much, at least. And, if he was lucky, maybe Slade would forgive his stupid, selfish impulses…

 

Swallowing audibly, Slade nodded, stepping back a few paces.

 

Shoving away his wounded pride and other feelings that had no place here, Oliver left the motel room, Slade following, taking some comfort in the knowledge that, this time, they wouldn’t leave the prison empty-handed.

 

 

 

 

Some unknown deity must have been on their side because when Oliver and Slade returned to the prison to retrieve Joe’s body, they discovered the warden was a liar. A few mild threats got them information and renewed hope of finding Joe, Felicity using what Oliver sent her to get a possible location.

 

Back in their motel room, Oliver babbled a little as he explained Felicity’s findings, the adrenaline and tension keying him up now that there was something that he could _do_ , “-using keyhole satellite technology-”

 

“She tracked them to one location,” Slade finished.

 

“Yes she did.” Six years and it still amazed Oliver what Felicity could do. Pride for his…ex? His coworker? _His friend_ , he decided firmly. That, at least, had never changed.

 

“She’s brilliant. So how did you get her?”

 

“I…don’t have her. Not anymore. Not for a long time.” Oliver fixed his gaze firmly on the gear bag Slade was messing with, ignoring how Slade went still and stared at him. He wouldn’t accept pity on this subject, the ruin of his relationship with Felicity was Oliver’s own fault. “What’s in there for me?”

 

“Nothing. I promised you your only part in this was talking.”

 

“Circumstances have changed,” Oliver argued.

 

“Not for you. You’ve got your feet planted in one world and you should keep them there.”

 

“Slade. These Jackals are the best of the worst, alright? They are stone-cold killers.”

 

Slade cocked one of his pistols. “And what you do you think I am?”

 

“I think that you’re outnumbered, and quite frankly, I think that you’re out of _practice_ , and I am not letting you do this alo- no.”

 

The rest of Oliver’s rant was lost as the sedative in his water hit him hard and fast. The last thing that went through Oliver’s mind as he slipped into unconsciousness was that Slade was going to face a group of mercenaries and, this time, there would be no Mirakuru to keep him from getting killed.

 

 

 

 

 

After the sedative finally wore off, Oliver went after Slade to the Jackals’ lair. The older man had already infiltrated their team - _Joe’s_ team. It was… unexpected…to say the least.

Discovered by Nylander, Oliver was knocked out and zip-tied him to a chair. He came to just in time to see Slade follow his son out the room Oliver was currently being kept in.

Everything had gone upside-down.

Slade hated mercenaries, but Joe was still his son, and Oliver had no idea what line of action the older man would now follow. Family usually trumped friends, as loyalties went and, not knowing what he was to the older man, he didn’t know what help to expect from Slade. Once, before the Mirakuru, Slade had called him ‘brother’, but now…

Oliver would have to play this out alone. He couldn’t safely bet on Slade to save him, his friends and family back home couldn’t afford such a blind gamble. He had already placed blind faith on Slade’s assurance that Oliver’s vigilante skill set wouldn’t be needed and had come here unprepared as a result.

Restrained in enemy territory, Oliver was paying the price for his lack of foresight.

So much for keeping his feet in one world.

 

 

 

 

 

Two of Joe’s men were talking to themselves. Oliver didn’t understand their language. He did, on the other hand, understand body language, and the way the men’s eyes were constantly fixed on him, roving over his face and body, told him to be wary of these two.

He shifted in the chair, testing the give in the plastic zip-tie, and immediately went still when a gun was raised in his direction. The thug pointing the gun called over to him in his rough, guttural speech, an ugly sneer on his face.

“I can’t understand you,” Oliver said, keeping his voice patient and level to avoid sounding threatening. No need to get shot just for talking.

“He say no move or he give you reason to move that you no like,” said the guy not holding the gun. His expression wasn’t any more pleasant than his buddy’s, but the pock marks dotting the man’s face somehow made him look more sinister.

The man with the sneer spoke up again, his outburst broken up by hearty belly-laughs that made Oliver’s skin crawl with the way he was looking at Oliver.

“He say he like your pretty face. Maybe he give you reason to move anyway.” The pock-marked man was either the other’s translator or the only one making the effort to speak English. Not that it mattered so long as Oliver avoided taking a bullet.

Without a weapon or cover, Oliver would have to get free somehow. Or disarm one of his guards, but for that, one of them would need to get a lot closer…

“He thinks I’m pretty?” Oliver asked, keeping the same bland, even tone as before, not telegraphing any interest in the response.

The two guards spoke back and forth for a moment, eyes glued to Oliver in a way that made him want to tear those eyes out, but he remained outwardly calm, searching for weaknesses despite his own impassive expression. “We _both_ think you pretty. Perhaps…perhaps we make you stay here better, yes? You want food? Drink? Maybe you help us, we help you?” The translator offered.

“And how can _I_ help _you?_ ” Oliver asked. He was under no illusions. He knew _exactly_ what kind of favors these two were angling for, had known what this might come to ever since their unwanted gazes first raked across his body, like their fingers were itching to do. The zip-tie would be easy enough to get free from, but he might get shot down before he stood from the chair.

He needed Joe’s thugs distracted.

Maybe…

The guards shared a brief conversation before the one with the sneer strode forward, stopping short of Oliver's leg reach. He smiled, his yellowed, uneven teeth on display as he chattered away at Oliver, grabbing at his own crotch and rubbing it obscenely, intent clear even if his words were not.

 

“He like your face so much he want to fuck it. Be good boy, you get better treatment, yes?” the other man said, coming closer as well.

 

Oliver cleared his throat.

 

“How do I know you'll make good on your end? That you won't just use me?” They were starting to get sloppy, coming so close. He ducked his head down slightly to peer at them from under his lashes as he shifted a little in his chair, feigning a skittish sort of naivety. He wasn't a fool. He knew his angles, knew how to best showcase them for these idiots and make them dance for him. Just a little closer…

 

“You don't,” the pock-marked man leered, “you be good boy for us anyway, yes?” He pulled out his gun as the other holstered his own, working his pants open to drag out his short, fat cock, jerking it fast and rough to get it hard. It didn't get much bigger when it did.

 

Fear spiked through Oliver. The ‘translator’ holding a gun on him was too far to disarm. If Oliver attacked now, there was a high chance he'd get shot for it.

 

He wasn't sure he could control this situation without doing something… unpleasant.

 

The pock-marked man raised his gun threateningly when the other man came forward and straddled Oliver's legs. The musky stench of him nearly had Oliver gagging as the small cock came nauseatingly close to his face. The instinct to fight rose up past Oliver's control and he twisted his head back and away as much as he could, but the disgusting man gripped his head with both hands, dragging Oliver forward anyway. The only weapon Oliver had now was his teeth, but the man was ready for him, striking hard at Oliver’s temple when he made to bite at the vulnerable cock swinging in his face.

 

“I would not fight so much, pretty one,” the other man chuckled nearby as pain flashed through Oliver, dazing him. “Make things hard for you.”

 

Another two strikes in quick succession rained on Oliver and, in the brief moment his guard was down, he felt thick, strong fingers pry apart his jaw, keeping it open as reeking flesh was forced into his mouth. Short as it was, the man's cock barely nudged the back of Oliver's throat, but it was still enough to set off his gag reflex, making it hard for Oliver to breathe and keep what little food he had in him down as the sneering man began to thrust in earnest, quick and sloppy with no rhythm to get used to.

 

Oliver started to pull at his restraints, gun be dammed, when he felt said gun press into his neck from behind, a third hand grip the back of his to hold him in place. “Such a good boy for Yuri. You good boy for Malichi too, yes?”

 

Oliver opened his eyes. They had slipped shut in the assault and he hadn't been aware of the translator - Malichi - moving to a more dangerous position. He didn't dare break free now, not with the gun so close.

 

He'd have to endure this.

 

Oliver's eyes watered - he refused to call them tears - and his jaw burned, still fighting to bite down, but the help of the hand on the back of his head had allowed Yuri to get a better hold on his face, keeping him still as his face was fucked even rougher than before. Yuri started grunting, speech incomprehensible; it was no stretch of the imagination to say he was close.

 

 _Just a little longer,_ Oliver thought to himself, trying to calm down despite his rising panic as air was harder to draw in. _It's almost over._

 

And then it was.

 

Yuri pushed into Oliver's mouth as far he could, holding there as he finally shot his release into Oliver's mouth, forcing Oliver to swallow or risk choking on the thick, bitter fluid. Yuri was suddenly out of his mouth and Oliver was free to spit and cough, panting hard through his mouth. He was aware of Yuri getting off him and moving away, but before Oliver could find the wherewithal to attempt an escape, Malichi was taking Yuri’s place. Multiple hands forced his head still, his jaw to open, a gun pressed against the base of his skull as a warning not to fight, a warning Oliver _barely_ heeded as panic rose up again.

 

Malichi was more blessed than Yuri and Oliver balked as a larger cock pushed into his mouth, whining in fear before he lost the air for it, his throat almost instantaneously getting battered.

 

“He love my cock so much he whine for more!” Malichi laughed, brutally shoving more than Oliver could handle into his mouth, the tip forcing its way into his throat.

 

Oliver's stomach heaved, tried to empty, but the thrusting cock only shoved some of it back down, the mess getting in his air pipe. He choked, eyes swimming as his body fought for air and was denied. Malichi seemed to notice what was happening because he pulled out of Oliver's mouth long enough to let Oliver hack and cough the vomit from his lungs.

 

There was laughter and talk over Oliver's head in that language he couldn't understand, but he wasn't of a mind to think of anything, having been reduced to the simple task of trying to breathe. Hands reached for his face again. This time, Oliver begged. “Please. Please don't.”

 

“You be good boy for me, maybe not be so rough.” Malichi stroked himself, placing the tip against Oliver's lips. “Lick,” he commanded.

 

Loath as he was to take an active role in this, Oliver knew it would only get worse again if he didn't bend.   
He couldn’t take more of the brutal thrusts Malichi had already given him. Oliver dropped his jaw and stuck his tongue out, recoiling at the taste of vomit on the man's skin. More laughter and talk above him, but he ignored it, lapping at head, at the spot just underneath it, doing his best to work it without putting it in his mouth. Malichi shoved it in anyway, though not as much this time. “Suck my cock. You bite, Yuri shoot.”

 

Furious, Oliver managed to curb his anger then did as commanded, using the other's breathing as a gauge for how he was doing and how close Malichi was.

 

“Look at me.” Oliver looked up, forced himself to stare angrily into the man’s mud-brown eyes.  “So pretty. So good for my _cock_.” A quiet groan and Malichi was spilling into his mouth, pushing most of the way back in which forced Oliver to have to swallow again, shuddering at the taste, at having a part of these two men still _inside_ of him somehow.

 

Eventually, Malichi withdrew, stuffing himself back into his pants while he chuckled softly, talking to Yuri in words Oliver couldn’t understand again.

 

The gun disappeared from where it had been digging into his skull. Oliver heard Yuri move away. He didn’t care. A tremble had started in his body as he slumped in the chair, panting to get back the air he’d been deprived of. The taste in his mouth was awful. He spat to try to rid himself of it, but all he did was make a further mess of his black shirt, stained as it was with spit and vomit and come that he hadn’t managed to swallow. His head was a cloudy mess. He knew he ought to use this chance to escape while Yuri and Malichi’s guards were probably still lowered, but all he could do was sit and tremble, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened to him, around what he’d just done…

 

 _Where the hell was Slade?_ Oliver thought, listlessly.

 

“What do we have here?”

 

Oliver lolled his head towards the familiar voice.

 

Nylander walked into the room from a different hall than the one Joe and Slade had taken. He came to a stop several feet away, taking in the messy state the guards had left Oliver. His smug smile set Oliver on edge. “Sampling the merchandise?” he asked Yuri and Malichi, cocking his head towards them without taking his eyes off the mess on Oliver’s shirt.

 

“I’m not your _merchandise_ ,” Oliver spat, anger reigniting his will to fight.

 

“You are our prisoner,” Nylander stated, nonchalant as he took a slow circular path around Oliver, pausing behind him, closer now. “Kane would likely get a decent sum from selling you.” A hand stroked over Oliver’s hair. “The man your government believes to be the Green Arrow, auctioned off to the highest bidder.” Fingers found enough purchase in Oliver’s hair to grip it tight and drag his head back to get an upside-down view of Nylander. “But who knows? Maybe you just get sold to someone for your looks. You are…quite beautiful… for a man. Maybe if the price is low enough…” He trailed off, stroking lightly at Oliver’s jaw, jerking his hand away when Oliver made to bite him.

 

“Still some spirit left to break,” Nylander said, coming back around in front Oliver. “Good. Higher price that way.”

 

Yuri spoke up, looking and gesturing at Oliver. Oliver couldn’t understand him, but he was starting to write off anything the man said as being bad news for him. Yuri broke off with dark chuckle. Whatever he said made Nylander smirk just before he eyed Oliver, considering, and something about it made Oliver’s stomach roll. Nylander spoke to the two guards in their own tongue and Oliver grew tense, wondering what more he would be subjected to. He didn’t have long to wait because, without warning, all three moved towards him, blocking his kicks and rearranging his restraints so that they could move him, first lifting him from the chair and then pinning him to the floor, face down. Yet another zip-tie was pulled tight around his wrists while one was attached around his ankles, cinching them together. Oliver struggled against them, but having his hands bound behind his back so tightly made escape impossible and he only hurt himself with his thrashing around.

 

Only when Oliver fell still did Nylander speak to him again.

 

“My boys speak highly of your quality, Mr. Queen. But…I think I’d like to judge for myself.”

 

A heavy weight settled on his ass - Nylander straddling him - and the panic Oliver experienced earlier hit him again. He bucked, tossed his head back, swore, but Nylander didn’t budge. He seemed content to wait until Oliver lay still once more, panting from his useless exertion. A hand pressed down on his head, turning it sideways and further pinning him to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Nylander dip his face close.

 

“I can see why he keeps you,” he whispered. “Pretty thing, with a talented mouth,” he brushed a thumb across Oliver’s lips, there and gone before Oliver could even flash his teeth, “but I know Slade’s tastes and I wonder how tight your ass still is…” He rocked his hips suggestively, crotch grinding against Oliver’s ass, a telltale bulge making itself known.

 

Oliver started to tremble again. A grey haze descended over his mind.

 

_He wouldn’t…?_

 

Nylander settled back and dug his hands underneath Oliver’s hips, going for the front of his pants.

 

Trying to prevent Nylander from getting his pants open, Oliver shifted, lifting his legs and torso so that all of his weight rested on his hips, effectively pinning the man’s hands under him, but a flash of movement caught Oliver's eye and there was pain lighting across the side of his face before he could even try to avoid the combat boot aimed at him. Dazed, he groaned as he dropped heavily down to floor, going limp enough that Nylander managed to get his button and zip open, pulling back enough to drag Oliver's clothes down and out of the way.

 

With the chillness of the air on his bare skin, Oliver renewed his hampered thrashing, struggling to concentrate with the throbbing pain his face was in. Someone laughed, planted a foot down on his bound legs, keeping him from kicking up and in towards Nylander’s unprotected back. Fear clawed into Oliver's very being. He'd been shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, tortured, nearly drowned, but no one had ever raped him. He couldn't wrap his head around what was happening. All he knew was the fear of what was coming and his complete inability to stop it.

 

The metallic sound of a zipper sliding open, a rustle of clothing, the heavy weight on Oliver's back shifting as hands spread apart his cheeks, exposing his hole for all to see-

 

There was a wet sound and a glob of spit landed on Oliver's tightly clenched hole.

 

He trembled violently on the ground, disgusted, terrified. His chest felt so tight with panic, he could hardly get enough air in. _This_ couldn’t _be happening…_

 

Nylander spoke to the guards as he thrust back and forth through the crevice of Oliver's ass cheeks, laughing as the spit smeared along the underside of his cock. Oliver choked on what little breath he had, tears running hot down his face as he pressed himself to the floor, as though he could somehow hide or sink through it if he tried hard enough. _This_ couldn’t _be happening…_

 

There was no warning. Nylander merely shifted his hips, angling the blunt tip of his cock down against the tight furl of Oliver's ass for barely a moment before it pushed _in_ , not stopping as Oliver begged and sobbed, not stopping as Oliver desperately thrashed beneath him. Nylander bottomed out, balls flush against Oliver's body, clutching at Oliver’s hips bruisingly tight as he sighed in pleasure, twitch his own hips forward as though he could get _deeper_.

 

Oliver panted brokenly. The pain was excruciating. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, stretched beyond comprehension, his most intimate flesh torn apart by it. It was being unmade and crushed under the will of another all at once and he was helpless to get away.

 

Then Nylander started to move, slowly, at first, but then picking up speed until the room was filled with the dirty sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and Oliver was reduced to nothing more than a hole for Nylander’s cock, lying still on the ground, whimpering as he tried to deal with the pain and ignore his rapist’s near constant groans of appreciation, the laughter and incomprehensible heckling from Malichi and Yuri. Oliver felt the rough hands on his hips move up to his shoulders so that Nylander could get better leverage and violence in his thrusts, dragging Oliver back towards him, drawing hoarse screams from Oliver's throat as the hard cock thrust punishingly hard within him.

 

Oliver’s entire world centered on the agony inside him so he didn't immediately register the soft popping sound of a silenced gun going off, once, twice, twin _thumps_ following moments later, but he _was_ aware of when Nylander froze within him, believing for a moment that _finally_ he had finished, but then Nylander’s hands left his shoulders and the man’s begging reached through the fog of pain dulling his mind.

 

“Slade, this wasn't- it was just a bit of fun-”

 

Through his tears, Oliver saw Slade a few paces away, two handguns equipped with silencers trained on Nylander. He whimpered, relief flooding through him at finally being _saved_ , though ashamed of being found like _this._

 

The rage on Slade’s face… It reminded Oliver of when he was near out of his mind from the Mirakuru. His remaining eye was near-black with the intent to kill. “Withdraw yourself. _Slowly_. You've hurt him enough already,” Slade growled.

 

Nylander _slowly_ began to withdraw. Oliver sucked in a ragged breath, shuddering, as the softening cock dragged against his torn insides, swallowing down another whimper when the tip slipped free from him.

 

“Get up. _Slowly_.”

 

“Slade- ”

 

“ _Save it_ ,” Slade barked.

 

The weight pinning Oliver down began to lift as Nylander did as told, standing up slowly, his hands raised.

 

Slade motioned with a gun. “Step away. _Stop_.” Nylander froze, having moved several feet away from Oliver. “Kid?”

 

Having Nylander away of him helped some of the fog in Oliver’s mind dissipate, though his body still quaked. Slade was here. He was safe. “I'll be alright,” he grated out his voice hoarse from screaming and the earlier abuse. He certainly wasn't fine right now.

 

Looking murderous, Slade stepped closer to Oliver, dropping down to a knee beside him, never once taking his eye or his guns off Nylander. “If you move,” he growled at Nylander, “I’ll kill you.” At the man’s terrified nod of understanding, Slade placed one of guns on the floor next to Oliver so that he could draw a knife, carefully using it to first cut free Oliver's hands, then his feet, keeping his remaining gun steady on Oliver's violator.

 

Blood rushed back into Oliver's fingers, making him bite back a groan at the pins and needles erupting all throughout his hands and feet. Shoulders aching, he reached down past his hips to yank his pants up, ignoring slick blood being covered up in the process. A hand rested lightly on his back, comforting, and Oliver's breath hitched, tears swimming in his eyes again.

 

Slade was here. He was safe.

 

Getting to his hands and knees was slow-going, Oliver needing to pause multiple times to breathe along the way as pain lanced through him when his hips changed position, causing his torn passage to involuntarily clench. Slade rubbed between his shoulders as he panted and shook, steading him when he rocked off balance.

 

Finally, Oliver got enough control over himself to look at Slade. His face was hard, fury in every line, his brows a thick, dark line low over the near-black burn of his eye. Slade was _pissed_ \- but not at _Oliver_ , which made something dark and primal curl in satisfaction deep in his chest, giving him the strength to climb to his feet, with Slade's help.

 

Nylander was frozen in place, his hands up, pants still open around his bloody, flaccid cock. Judging by the fear in his eyes, he knew _exactly_ how much he had fucked up. “Slade- ”

 

“Shut. _Up_.” Slade growled. Nylander immediately did so.

 

Caught up in staring at his violator, trying to process the anger and hatred flowing through him at being hurt so deeply, so _intimately_ , it took Oliver a moment to realize that Slade was holding something out to him.

 

The second gun.

 

Oliver hadn't noticed that Slade had picked it back up.

 

Without a thought, he took it. The solid heft of a weapon in his hands was a satisfying comfort after coming to the Jackal’s lair unprepared, after those three had…

 

He leveled the gun at Nylander. His shaking tapered off as he felt something fierce swell within him, something not felt in years since he stopped wielding death as a form of justice.

 

 _Righteousness_.

 

Now it was Nylander who shook, who pleaded.

 

His begging fell on deaf ears. One firm squeeze of the trigger and Nylander collapsed, lifeless, onto the floor, a bullet hole square between his eyes.

 

Oliver let his arm drop and he stared at the man he'd just killed, dead on the floor like his friends for _daring_ to touch him. The feeling of wrongness didn't leave his skin - he hadn't expected it would -  but the vindictive, primal part of Oliver born on the island all those years ago was satisfied that justice had been dealt.

 

“C’mon, kid, let's get you cleaned up.”

 

Numbness began to spread in Oliver's mind and he was grateful that Slade took point, ushering him out of the compound as quickly and quietly as they could. They got out undetected just as an alarm went off, Joe's men having finally found the bodies and began searching for them in earnest.

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, they made it back to the rundown motel. It wasn’t the safest idea, the Jackal’s probably knew exactly where they had checked into at the start of their mission, but it was all they had on short notice. With Oliver injured, they needed to regroup.

 

And Oliver _desperately_ needed to clean the filth off his skin.

 

The first thing Oliver did when they returned to their room was vomit until his stomach heaved dry, brush his teeth until his gums had bled, until the taste of their cocks and come was gone and his stomach could _maybe_ stop rolling. Then he stepped into the shower to remove every last trace he could.

 

The small bathroom was thick with steam by the time Oliver toweled off, his movements slow and careful as he gently patted dry his scoured, angry-red skin.

 

He wiped the fog off the mirror hanging over the dingy little vanity and stared at his reflection. He felt so…blank, unsure of himself.

 

Out of balance.

 

It was a familiar experience for him. Uncertainty followed Oliver like a shadow, growing near-tangible over the past year as he tried to be _normal_. Looking at his tired, battered reflection, he wondered if maybe normal wasn’t for him.

 

Maybe, for the past few years, all he had been doing was running away, trying to be something he simply _wasn’t_. 

 

He had come to Kasnia as a diplomatic figure, but - if he was honest with himself - he was unsuited to the practice of using words to fight his battles. Tonight only proved that. _Words_ wouldn’t have saved him. Armed as the Green Arrow, Oliver was convinced the trauma he had experienced at the Jackals’ hands wouldn’t have happened at all. His…­ _rape_ …wouldn’t have happened.

 

Part of Oliver’s inner turmoil stemmed from disbelief. He had been _raped_. It didn’t make sense to him, the idea that someone could do that to him, that someone _did_ do that to him. He wasn’t stupid, he _knew_ that rape wasn’t a violent act inflicted only upon women, but there had never been a fear of it happening to _him_. Even now, a… _victim_ himself, he had the strangest sense of double reality, where Oliver felt irrevocably changed by the physical horrors inflicted only mere hours ago, yet also felt untouched, as though it hadn’t happened to him, but to someone else. Oliver still looked the same (bruises and all), you couldn’t really tell just by looking at his reflection that he’d been raped, but on the inside he was the naïve little boy who thought bad things like rape couldn’t happen to him, on the inside he was the scarred victim - he was _both._ And being both didn’t make _sense_. He didn’t know what to think, how to deal with the rage of emotions inside him. His own ignorance and indignation warred with the self-doubt and anger from being violated so _intimately_ , all of it swirling deep within him, angled at the only person he could hold responsible for his pain.

 

Himself

 

Oliver had paid the price for his ignorance.

 

And now…

 

What was he to do now?

 

Go back home and…and what? Try to be normal again? Pretend nothing had happened to him?

 

Pretending wasn’t so hard, he’d been doing it for years. In a life already filled with lies and pretend, what was one more thing to hide?

 

But that was before, when he wasn’t stuck in the political spotlight, when he could spend night after night assuaging his demons and taking down criminals at the same time. But now? He was under fire for _allegedly_ being the Green Arrow, a mantle that John had assumed - taking his goddamn _place_ out there in the shadows, in the world Oliver knew and fit in best. Back home, he was stuck trying to live a life that didn’t truly seem to fit, a life where smiles and words were used like weapons and an expensive suit was his civilian version of armor. Now Oliver had no physical outlet for his frustration, his political savvy was minimal _at best_ (despite the support of his team), and, at the end of the day, he couldn’t really tell from a fucking _poll_ if he was making an impact or not.

 

Honestly…he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to go back home.

 

What was even keeping him in Star City? The team had John to lead them, Thea was blossoming on her own and had Quentin for guidance, Felicity was firmly entrenched in her own business endeavors and with the team, though friendship and guilt made her come around to help with William. And William…

 

He and William had been driven together in the first place by events neither of them had wanted. Oliver knew there hadn’t been much time for them both to really adjust to their new situation, but William (rightfully) blamed him for his mother’s death, _hated_ Oliver being the Green Arrow, hated the _one_ aspect in Oliver’s life that had given him control and peace of mind, and even though Oliver had done his best to do right by his son and put that part of his life to rest, William still felt so far away from him.

 

Try as he might, the straight and narrow path was crumbling beneath Oliver’s feet. Somehow he always managed to find his way back to more dangerous paths, and while those around him could usually stand the risks, William was different. William was innocent, _vulnerable._

  
Maybe…maybe it was in William’s best interests if Oliver… _didn’t_ come home?

 

_Breathe and move forward… to the cage he’d left back home? Or somewhere else?_

 

A soft knock on the door interrupted Oliver’s thoughts. “Kid?”

 

“I’ll-” he broke off, coughing through the roughness of his throat, “I’ll be right out.”

 

He struggled his way into his suit from earlier, uncaring if it was wrinkled or if he got blood all over it. Pain lanced up through his lower back from his abused backside and, even unbuttoned, his sleeve cuffs chaffed at his abraded wrists.

 

He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for days. He wanted to run away from everything and everyone.

 

He _hated_ that he could do neither.

 

With a deep, steadying breath, Oliver hobbled out of the bathroom. He’d try to hide his limp when there were strangers around, his pride be damned right now. “Alright, what’s the plan?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, being mindful of his injured wrists. “How are we going to stop the Jackals?”

 

Slade stared at him, incredulous. “ _We’re_ not stopping anything. You need rest, _medical_ _attention_ -”

 

”I’m fine-”

 

“ _Don’t lie to me_ ,” Slade growled, stepping closer. “I _know_ what happened, I _saw_ what happened. You can’t just brush this off like-  like it was just another _beating_. What they did to you was-”

 

“It was my fault,” Oliver said, sounding far calmer than he felt with the raging torrent of pain and confusion inside of him.

 

“ _No_ , this is _my_ fault.”

 

“Slade, it was _my_ choice to follow you when you told me not to-”

 

“If I hadn't drugged you in the first place, you wouldn't have _had_ to! I should’ve known you would come after me! We could have made a plan, something that didn't leave you alone with those _animals_ -”

 

“I am capable of taking care of myself, alright?!” Oliver nearly shouted over him. “Tonight's events…notwithstanding.” Oliver finished awkwardly, the words sounding forced even to him. He'd taken on more opponents at once, but today, for one reason or another, the odds just hadn’t favored him. There was nothing he could have done and nothing he could do to change what happened.

 

But he could learn from his mistakes.

 

 _Breathe and move forward_ , he repeated to himself.

 

“You haven’t answered my question,” Oliver pressed. “What’s the plan?”

 

“The plan is to get you fixed up and keep the Jackals as far away from you as possible,” Slade said, stepping back towards his open back of gear on the table, rifling through it for something. Or maybe nothing, it was a convenient way to not have to look at Oliver.

 

“What about the coup they’re planning?” Oliver pressed, aggravated that he was being ignored. Aggravated that _everything_ that he’d gone through tonight had seemingly been for _nothing_. Pain and anger swirled menacingly inside him and Slade just kept. Looking. Through. That. _Damn_. **Bag**.

 

“Not. Our. Problem.” 

 

“And what about Joe?” Slade’s jaw worked as he _finally_ quit rummaging around in his bag, simply gazing into it as he stood still, guilt all over his face. “You came all this way for him. Don’t let me be what stops you from making amends. Running a group of mercenaries isn’t a deal breaker, okay? I’ve seen worse.  You can still get through to him, I _know_ it-”

 

“We’ll have to disagree on that point.” Slade glanced at him, looked torn, awkward, feelings he had rarely expressed in the past but often seemed to of late. “Just drop it. He’s passed saving,” Slade said flatly, his face tight with suppressed anger. “The boy I rais­-” Slade cut himself off with a small shake of his head. “The _man_ I _knew_ wouldn’t have given his loyalty to a terrorist cell…wouldn’t have given an unarmed man away as a _plaything_ to his soldiers.”

 

Oliver went cold, his throat working against a growing tightness.

 

Slade couldn’t mean...

 

Glancing at Oliver and away again, Slade sighed heavily and leaned against the edge of the table. “Joe _knew_ what kind of men he had working for him, what kind of men he left you with.”

 

Oliver’s breathing quickened, the anger rising within him-

 

“He told me not to worry about you. That he was doing me a _favor_ ,” Slade spat, looking disgusted, still not looking at Oliver. “He thought I would be _grateful_ that my son would commit such grotesque atrocities to exact revenge on the man who took his father’s eye.” Slade finally leveled his gaze at Oliver, a painful mix of sorrow and anger twisting his face. “So you see, kid, it _is_ my fault that you went through that. My own blood set your rape into motion. For _me_.”

 

The room was going grey around the edges. Oliver’s breathing was off, he needed more air, but he couldn’t get it in, his chest was so tight-

 

Suddenly, Slade was right there in front of him, gently cupping his face, coaxing Oliver to breathe, his deep, soothing voice driving back the panic that threatened to overtake Oliver once more. Grabbing Slade’s wrists, Oliver held on tight, literally latching onto him, letting the man ground Oliver as he once used to, drawing strength from him. Blinking through the tears swimming in his eyes, Oliver heaved in breath after breath until some of the torrent inside him eased, calmed by having Slade so close and so _gentle_ with him.

 

A thumb brushed over his damp cheek, smearing across the wet ridge of it and down his jaw.

 

Slade was so close. His proximity was hard to take, harder still was the guilt and sadness lining his face. Oliver made to step even closer, part of him wanting to comfort Slade, understanding the torment the older man had to be dealing with, but immediately he stopped himself, remembering his thoughtless actions hours earlier when they still thought Joe was dead.

 

Seeing Oliver’s aborted move, Slade made the decision for him, stepping in closer to wrap Oliver in a hug tight enough to hamper his breathing again.

 

Going nearly limp, Oliver leaned most of his weight against Slade. He tucked his face into a hard shoulder as he clutched the man just as hard in return, hands fisting in Slade’s shirt. Pain shot through him again from moving around so carelessly, but he ignored it, grateful that Slade was here, comforting him, despite all of their past and everything they’d done to each other.

 

He still had Slade.

 

Tears ran harder down his face, unable to really process how lucky he was to have gotten the man back after Oliver was _sure_ for so many years that Slade was lost.

 

“Joe is my son,” Slade whispered into his hair. “But he hurt you. And I’m not sure that’s something I can forgive.”

 

Forgiveness. Memories of his mother and father flashed through him, of the lives they had hurt, how their lies and actions had brought suffering upon so many people, including their own children. Much of the pain Oliver had experienced was due to their actions and, yes, he _had_ blamed them for it, but he had also forgiven them because, at the end of the day, they were family. Slade had been through a decade of hell, had fought to get back to his own son, but now, when Slade was closer to re-connecting with Joe than he’d been in years, he was ready to give up - because of Oliver.

 

Molten hot guilt burned in Oliver’s gut at the idea of being the barrier between Slade and Joe, the feeling similar to when he had believed he had killed Slade all those years ago on the Amazo. Even if… Even _if_ Joe was responsible for what his men did to him, Oliver couldn’t stand to be the one holding Slade back. Ten years had passed since that split-second mistake on the Amazo, both father and son had been kept apart for _ten years_ because of _him_.

 

No more. ~~~~

“I missed you.”

 

Oliver’s whispered words were met with silence, so he continued.

 

“I missed you,” Oliver repeated, louder this time, “when you died. I missed you when I left you on Lian Yu, and when you left those months ago.” He cleared his sore throat against the rise of sorrow at remembering how _alone_ he had felt. How he _still_ felt. “Things haven't always been… stable… between us. And I'm sure the same could be said for your relationship with Joe.”

 

Slade snorted at that, seemed ready to rebuff him again, so Oliver hurried on.

 

“My point is, even after all the bad blood between us, I still missed you. I'm sure that, even though Joe has changed, walked paths that you didn't want for him, he's your son and, deep down, he's still that little boy who just misses his dad. I know it's hard, but…. If you leave now, you'll never know if you can still reach him. This might be the last chance you'll have to change him.”

 

Slade was still and silent in his arms, but he was _listening_. Or seemed to be. Oliver sighed. “Don't let _me_ stand in the way of saving your son. I'm not worth that.”

 

“You're worth _everything,”_ Slade growled, his voice so coarse it was hard to understand him at first.

 

Slade pulled back enough to look at Oliver properly, holding him tightly by the shoulders. “You've been through so much pain, so much loss, some of by my own hand, and - _somehow_ \- you've come out stronger than I _ever_ imagined you could be when I first met you. And for you to trust me after _everything_ I've put you through, I…”Slade paused for a moment, his jaw clenching against whatever emotions were churning within him. “The man you've become is the kind of man I hoped my son would grow to be, the kind of man _I_ wish I could be… For you to believe there's still good in him after what he did to you - _no_ ,” Slade shook his head, shutting down the protest that didn't have time to leave Oliver's lips, “no, he let it happen, perhaps even _ordered_ it, and the kind of man who would sink to that level….” Slade sighed, shaking his head again, his face drawn with regret as he glanced away. “I'm not sure my son could ever be redeemed.” He met Oliver's eyes once more, hesitant. “Not when he's hurt the only other person in this world I love.”

 

Slack-jawed, Oliver blinked rapidly, his brows drawn together into a near solid line from confusion. Slade…? “But-”

 

“I told you earlier. You’ve got shit timing, kid.” Slade reached up to cup one side of Oliver’s face, gently brushing a callused thumb across Oliver's cheek, though there were no more tears to brush away. The touch and the soft look in Slade gaze confused Oliver even more.

 

Oliver stared, eyes wide with shock and a touch of fear because the way Slade was looking at him - and so goddamn gentle as he touched Oliver's aching face - it was the kind of attention Oliver had dreamed of getting from him, but to receive it now, after everything Chase had opened his eyes to, and after what the Jackals had done to him…

 

The warmth of Slade’s affection, the glowing words - he wasn't worthy of any of it. He was monster, a murderer. Oliver did his best to hide what he was, the façade he daily wore harder and harder to wear, but he hadn’t realized that Slade was fooled as well.

 

How to make Slade understand the truth?

               

“Slade-” Oliver choked out around the swell of emotion in his throat.  “I’m not what you think- the things I've done, the people I've hurt - that I've _killed_ \- I'm not… I'm a _monst_ -”

 

”You are what the world made you,” Slade gruffly interrupted. “A survivor. Everything you’ve done was what you felt you needed to do. Nothing more, nothing less. The world isn't perfect, Oliver, and neither are you. We’ve both hurt and killed to get the job done-”

 

“But I _liked_ it,” Oliver blurted out harshly, his voice wavering. “I liked it,” he repeated, softer. “I became something that I couldn’t recognize and I’ve tried _so hard_ to try to make up for the things I’ve done, for what I _am_ , but the people around me - the people I _love_ \- they get hurt and sometimes…sometimes I even don’t know if I should keep _trying_ …”

 

“So don't. Come with me.”

 

Oliver stared, blindsided by the idea.

 

“Come with me,” Slade repeated softer, looking almost scared, as though he expected Oliver to reject him. “You’ve done so much for that city, for people who don’t know or care about you. If anyone deserves a rest, it’s you. So…come with me.” Slade had never been this sentimental, this open and raw with Oliver, but then the island hadn’t been a place for softness.

 

Oliver swayed a little on his feet, overwhelmed by everything that was happening back home, by everything that had happened since he’d taken Slade’s call, by the sheer enormity and… _freedom_ of what Slade was proposing. He was so overwhelmed that the only response he could gather himself to make was-

 

“Where?” Oliver rasped out, and then coughed to try to rid his voice of the roughness his emotions were giving it. “Go where? Do …what?” He laughed a little as he choked out the questions. This was crazy. Impossible. He wasn’t really considering…

 

“Anywhere,” Slade whispered back. “Anything. I’m tired of cages. And furthering causes I don’t believe in. I’ve done nothing but search for Joe since you freed me from Lian Yu, moving from hellhole to hellhole nearly nonstop. I’d like to rest. Or just go somewhere nicer. Maybe somewhere with fewer trees and more snow. But no more islands.”

 

It wasn’t funny - nothing in their situation was, really - but Oliver couldn’t help the low chuckle that sprang from his lips. The weak laughter made some of the hysterical fear rising in his chest dissipate and he found he could breathe a little easier now. A tiny smile tugged at his lips. “What about Russia?”

 

“Russia has a lot of trees.”

 

“Russia has snow.

 

“Yeah, but I think I've met enough Russians to last me a lifetime.”

 

“Anatoli wasn't _that_ bad… at first…” Oliver trailed of, unhappily remembering how far from grace his old friend had fallen. He wished it all had gone differently with the gangster. He wished a lot of things had gone differently…

 

Slade gave him an unamused grimace, shaking his head with a snort as he glanced away.

 

There was nothing but the quiet sound of their breathing for a moment, and the slow, gentle strokes of Slade’s thumb across his cheek. It was…comforting, in a way, to simply be near Slade.

 

Oliver regretted having to disturb the quiet moment between them by turning the discussion back to matter at hand. “Are we really doing this?” he asked softly. Guilt turned in his gut at the thought of the mess waiting for him at home, of abandoning his friends, his family, his _son_ , but at the same time, there was an urge to go with Slade and just be _free_ , free in a way he hadn’t experienced in so long...

 

He had never felt so torn in his _life_.

 

Slade finally let go of him, his hands brushing down Oliver’s arms almost regretfully as he took a few steps back, forcing Oliver to release his near-desperate grip on Slade’s shirt as space was put between them. He watched Oliver solemnly for a moment. “That’s up to you, kid.”

 

Oliver closed his eyes. Without Slade to distract him, the aches of his body intensified, but he used the pain to drive away the fear taking hold of him again. Everyone he loved…or Slade. There was no life for Slade in Star City and his life in Star City couldn’t follow him with Slade.

 

He would have to choose.

 

The pain he felt now was in his heart. He knew he couldn’t have everything, but _why_ did it feel, whichever way he decided, that he would be left with nothing? It was unfair. It didn’t matter what he thought, life wasn’t fair.

 

In the end, it was his heart that he followed, and he hoped that he was doing the right thing.

 

Swallowing roughly, Oliver opened his eyes, took a deep, shaky breathe, and _chose_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two chapters are my way of not officially choosing an ending bc I really didn't know which way I wanted to go....so I wrote two endings to make me and others happy. Played both fields there. You decide which ending you like, I know my preference...


	2. Possible Ending 1: Home (Without You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One possible ending I made, follows after chapter one

Oliver’s taxi driver silently took him deeper into Star City where traffic became heavier, bogging down their speed, drawing out the trip to Oliver’s apartment - which suited him just fine, it gave him time to stuff what was left of his soul back into something resembling human, into someone that could maybe cope with the burden waiting to be re-shouldered once he got home.

 

Under his placid expression, Oliver was a wreck. He felt like he had been pulled apart then hastily put back together, some of him not fitting together quite right, but then Oliver hadn’t felt quite right in years.

 

Not since he had put an arrow through the eye of the man he loved.

 

The same man Oliver had walked away from.

 

It had been several hours since he’d let Kasnia behind. The way time was dragging for him, it felt longer. Like days. Or weeks. He’d spent the time alone thinking of everything, thinking of nothing, his mind mostly a haze of uncertainty and pain.

 

Needing a distraction, Oliver looked out the window, focusing on the world flashing past it, instantly regretting it when the first thing he focused on was a couple walking down the sidewalk, looking happy and wrapped up in each other. Quickly, he faced forward to stare at the dashboard. Much safer. Even if it did nothing to distract from the ache in his chest.

 

_Breathe and move forward_.

 

Soon he would be home, back to evading allegations with a false smile and silver tongue, living in a lie.

 

He wasn’t ready.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

The taxi still slowed to a halt outside his building, his feet still moved him forward until he was outside his door. Oliver stared it, keys hanging in his limp hand as he wondered - for the millionth time - if he was doing the right thing.

 

A heavy sigh left him.

 

He’d made his choice in Kasnia.

 

The key slid smoothly into the lock, the door swung open - and there was William, sitting on the couch in a pile of homework. William, who looked up and ran towards him, who wrapped his arms around Oliver’s middle, squeezing tight.

 

Amazed, Oliver let his bag drop away to the floor, tentatively hugging back, a warm, happy feeling spreading through his chest, soothing away some of the ache in his heart.

 

In that moment, Oliver knew he had made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter I hated, even though it had Oliver being Responsible and shit.
> 
> Comments and criticisms are welcome. You can find me at collared-fantasies.tumblr.com


	3. Possible Ending 1: Home (With You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second possible ending I made, follows chapter one.

Before he and Slade had left Kasnia, Oliver had taken a moment to send Felicity a message. It was cowardly, he knew, saying his goodbyes through an email, but he needed her to understand why he wasn't coming back and Oliver couldn't stomach doing it over a phone call.

 

In truth, he knew none of them would really get why he was running away, but he hoped that maybe - _maybe_ \- with an explanation, they wouldn't try to look for him so hard. They deserved so much more than for him to simply ghost on them.

 

They had deserved so much more than _him_.

 

After a few months stay in Russia (mostly just to piss the older man off), they did end up on an island - and it was even Slade's idea (which Oliver had yet to let him live down). Apparently cold weather didn't agree with Slade, though Oliver suspected that he missed island life more than he liked. But even Oliver had to agree that life on Corto Maltese wasn't anything like Lian Yu. The locals hadn't tried to kill them and Oliver had access to warm running water whenever he wanted.

 

_Definitely_ better than Lian Yu.

 

It also had no extradition, which was great when you were a fugitive from the law, suspected of vigilantism and several counts of murder.

 

Still, Oliver had been wary of coming here since his old team knew he'd been to the island before, but so far there had been no contact or sight of anyone from his old life - either he and Slade had settled in a place that no one had thought to look for them or their watchers were biding their time. Not knowing which it was drove him crazy sometimes, but Slade had fairly effective methods of calming him down and directing his attention to more…pleasurable things.

 

Their life was quiet, both taking odd jobs to make ends meet. They kept up rigorous training sessions at Slade's insistence - and when Slade became overly paranoid, Oliver would use his _own_ methods of distraction to bring back some sanity in the older man.

 

Guilt still shadowed Oliver when he thought of William, though surprisingly not as strongly as when Oliver had `killed’ or abandoned Slade. Granted, he had only been aware of William’s existence for two years, but that was _two years_ of knowing and accepting William as his son. It shamed Oliver to think he was more attached to Slade than William, but in the end, Oliver had listened to his battered, hopeful heart and followed Slade.

 

Because he had always followed Slade.

 

And probably always would.

 

_Breathe and move forward._

 

His guilt would likely haunt him for the rest of his days, he could live with that. Because, when Slade let himself get soft with Oliver, when they would fight and fuck and curl up around each other at night, the warmth and fierce happiness that spread through Oliver's very being from having Slade in any way he could told Oliver he'd made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my preferred ending, tbh, but I felt bad about William so I made the first ending to clear my conscience. 
> 
> Comments and criticisms welcome, you can find me at collared-fantasties.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> The last two chapters are my way of not officially choosing an ending bc I really didn't know which way I wanted to go....so I wrote two endings to make me and others happy. Played both fields there. You decide which ending you like, I know my preference...


End file.
